


It's Necessary

by SeptemberCrypt



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Mental Illness, PTSD, beacause our poor boys have so much trauma, because im the worst, because its me, because there arent enough of these three morons being together, but - Freeform, but we all know im terrible at continuing multichapter fics, im not exactly planning on there being angst, kind of a slow burn tho, probably, seriously, this first chapter was supposed to be the whole fic but then i decided to make it bigger, three way relationship, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-04 09:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18340691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeptemberCrypt/pseuds/SeptemberCrypt
Summary: Fenris and Anders never liked each other very much. Sometimes, though, all it really takes is a shift in perspective for everything to change.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No joke I'm awful at making long fics but I'm not planning on this becoming nearly as large as "Brokenhearted" ended up being so fingers crossed or whatever. Have faith in me. 
> 
> I've always loved Anders and Fenris together, and tossing Hawke into the mix makes it even better.

If Anders had known that Fenris’s past would catch up with him that day, he never would have agreed to tag along on Hawke’s trip to Sundermount. It wasn’t that Anders didn’t want to help the man escape slavery—as unpleasant he is, nobody deserved that—but the fact that Fenris blamed it all on magic. Magic didn’t enslave him, people did. But, because those people used magic, he now assumed that it was all magic’s fault.

Anders never really liked it when Hawke took both of them on some mission or other, but he couldn’t exactly refuse. If Hawke said he needed him, Anders would be there. He couldn’t imagine it was pleasant, though; listening to Fenris and himself arguing the whole time. Varric was usually vocal about the annoyance, but Hawke never really mentioned it. Maybe he thought that if they spent enough time together, they would eventually find some common ground. Anders wouldn’t be opposed to that idea, it wasn’t as though he disliked Fenris as a _person_ , he just disagreed with the majority of his opinions. Fenris, however, would never agree to a truce. He hated Anders, simply because he was a mage.

It was always tiring listening to Fenris go off about how evil magic was, how the Templars were right and they should all be locked up. And Anders would imagine it was just as tiring to listen to himself rant about the injustices of the Circle and the plight that was mage oppression. Sometimes, he even managed to irritate himself with their constant bickering.

Justice certainly didn’t like Fenris, though. He thought that Fenris was being a child about the whole thing, that he needed to get over it so he could see that Circle mages were just as enslaved as he was in Tevinter. Anders had to remind his friend that what Fenris went through was not something one just got over. Fenris needed to heal, Anders could see that much. It was obvious how much the pat still affected him, and Anders could never hate him for that.

So, it wasn’t that Anders disliked Fenris at all, it was simply that he couldn’t stand to hear him spout about how unnatural magic was, and how all mages were like the ones in Tevinter. And these slavers finding him again, this _Hadriana_ , Anders knew it would just dig up those opinions. Which was why he wished he had stayed back at the clinic that day.

However, he didn’t. He chose to go with Hawke, and so he stumbled through the dark caves with his friends without complaining. He tried to look on the bright side: he got to kill slavers, which was something that always satisfied him. Both he and Justice hated slavery. As much as a paradise Tevinter may seem for mages, it was truly a terrible place. It was just full of oppression and slaves and blood magic. All things that Anders hated.

“More slavers!” He heard Hawke shout. Readying his staff, Anders scanned the small opening for enemies.

Usually, Anders would hang further back, letting the others fight at close-range while he defended them from a distance. But, that was rather difficult to do in a small, enclosed space. Maker, did he hate caves. He didn’t even see the rogue come up from behind until he felt a dagger slash across his left arm, tearing through his coat and splitting the skin open.  

Immediately, he turned on his heels, lashing out with the bladed on of his staff. His weapon only met air, though, as the rogue swiftly dodged and sent out a kick to Anders’s knees, nearly bringing him to the ground. Angrily, Anders blasted him a few feet away with a kinetic surge of energy, summoning a fireball and throwing it right into the man’s chest. Thankfully, the rogue’s armor wasn’t fireproof, and he went down screaming.

When he turned back to the others, they were standing in the remains of about half a dozen slavers, Fenris carefully sliding his sword out of the chest of one of the corpses. In the middle of all the gore, cowered a young-looking blond elf, who was looking at them with fear in her big eyes.

Fenris cautiously neared her, “Are you hurt? Did they touch you?” He asked, concern lacing his tone.

The girl quivered. “They’ve been killing everyone, they cut Poppa, bled him!” She sobbed. _Bled him?_ Anders thought, stomach growing uneasy at the knowledge of what that had to mean.

Fenris’s eyes darkened at the statement. “Why?” He asked, clearly angry, “Why would they do this?”

“The magister,” the elf said, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “She said that she needed power, that someone was coming to kill her.”

Fenris stared at her silently. Anders couldn’t help but feel sorrow for the girl, obviously used and abused by her masters. She looked so young, he thought. Too young to have to live through something like this.

“We tried to be good,” she continued with a wavering voice, looking down at her bare feet, “We did everything we were told. She loved Poppa’s soup, I don’t understand.” A fresh wave of tears began to slide down her cheeks, her face scrunching up in grief.

“Is the magister still here?” Hawke questioned, looking over the girl’s shoulder.

“I think so, the magister said that they were to prepare for battle, I think she’s very frightened,” She replied.

“She has every reason to be,” Fenris growled. Anders could hear the hate in his voice, see the fire in his eyes. He clenched his fists tightly, as if having to hold himself back from physically demonstrating his anger. 

The girl’s eyes widened, “Please don’t hurt her, she’ll be so angry if you hurt her,” she cried. Anders couldn’t imagine the horrors she must have seen, she was so _scared_. He felt the urge to wrap her in a warm blanket and tell her everything would be okay.

“This has been terrible for you,” Hawke voiced softly, his mind obviously in the same place as Anders’s.

“Everything was fine until today!” She sobbed, hiding her face in her hands.

“It wasn’t,” Fenris said, sadness visibly seeping through his anger, “You just didn’t know any better.”

“Are you my master now?”

“No!” Fenris blanched, clearly disgusted by the suggestion.

“But I can cook, I can clean, what else will I do?” She pleaded, her eyes wide and glassy. They couldn’t send her out into the world, Anders thought. It would eat her alive. The only life she must have known was one as a slave, if she was to have a future, she’d need help shaping it.

They would not allow her to go back into slavery, Anders was sure of that. Fenris certainly wouldn’t have that. But they couldn’t send her off alone with no way to protect herself. Anders could just imagine her trying to make a living and ending up at the Blooming Rose. Not that it was exactly a bad place of employment, but Anders could tell the last thing she needed was a job like that.

“If you go to Kirkwall, I can help you,” Hawke suggested when nobody else spoke up. The girl turned to him at that, visibly perking up. “Ask around for Hawke Estate, you should be pointed in the right direction. When you get there, tell Bodhan I sent you.”

“Yes? Oh, praise the Maker, thank you!” She bounced, overjoyed. She swiftly made her way towards the exit, brushing past a livid-looking Fenris.

“I didn’t realize you were in the market for a slave!” He spat, rounding on Hawke.

“I gave her a job, Fenris,” Hawke explained, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was planning on _paying_ her. I don’t take slaves,” He continued, offended.

A sheepish look fell over Fenris’s face. “Ah, then, that’s good,” He said, his eyes lowered and a blush on his cheeks, “My apologies, let’s find Hadriana and be done with this place,” He steeled himself again, the usual blankness resting on his features. Hawke raised an eyebrow at him, seemingly unsettled by his friend’s outburst.

Anders himself felt angered at Fenris’s accusation. Did he really think Hawke as the kind of man who would enslave someone? All Hawke had ever _done_ for Fenris was help him stay free from his master. Was he so quick to think so little of the man they’ve known for the past three years? The man who has helped and protected them—all of them. Hawke was fiercely loyal to his friends, no matter their past.

He kept his mouth shut, though, as they continued on through the tunnels. Anders wasn’t stupid enough to further aggravate Fenris, not unless he wanted a sword through the chest. Anders understood why Fenris was on edge, he truly did. But that didn’t give him the right to go off on Hawke the way he did. And still, he kept his mouth shut. For once.

It didn’t take much longer before they found Hadriana. Anders could see the way Fenris tensed at the sight of her, how his eyes filled with hidden agony. _What did she and Denarius do to him?_ He thought. As much as Fenris talked about his time in slavery, he never talked about what _happened_ to him there.

This fight, like the others, didn’t take very long. Anders busied himself with making sure Hawke, who had an unfortunate amount of slavers gang up on him, was well-defended. Varric seemed content to keep his distance and Fenris was cutting down enemies with vigor. Out of the corner of his eye, Anders saw Fenris get slashed across the middle with a nasty-looking greatsword. He almost ran over to check on him, but the elf recovered quickly, cutting the other man’s throat with a powerful swing.

When Hadriana fell, her forces defeated, Fenris rushed over to where she lay. He raised his sword, readying for the kill when she cried out “Stop!” He hesitated, just for a moment, but it gave her enough time to continue.

“You don’t want me dead!” She said, looking up at him from beneath her dark, tangled hair.

Fenris scowled at her, “There is only one person I want dead more.”

“I have information, elf,” She breathed, clutching the wound on her stomach, “And I will trade it in return of my life.”

Fenris scoffed at that, glaring down at her venomously, “The location of Denarius? What good will that do me?” He asked, “I’d rather he lose his pet pupil.” He raised his sword again.

“You have a sister,” Hadriana choked out, fear filling her cold eyes. “She is alive!”

Anders kept his eyes on Fenris, who had suddenly gone very pale. He lowered his sword, arm going limp. He was staring at Hadriana, eyes wide and mouth open. _A sister?_ Anders thought. From what he knew about Fenris, the man had no memory of his life before the lyrium markings were branded into his skin. But if he had a sister…

Hadriana sat up slowly, a coy look on her face. “You wish to reclaim your life. Let me go and I will tell you where she is.”

Fenris looked at her for a moment, seeming to contemplate the offer. “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Hawke asked skeptically, moving to stand beside Fenris. Anders hung back, watching the scene play out from afar.

“You don’t,” Hadriana chuckled, showing bloodied teeth. She continued: “But I know Fenris, and I know what he is searching for. If he wants me to betray Denarius, he’ll have to pay for it.”

Fenris looked conflicted, he pressed his lips together and shifted his gaze away from the woman on the floor. Anders hadn’t seen his own family since he was just a boy. His father called the Templars himself, but his mother…his mother had wanted to protect him. Over the years, his memory of them began to fade, being replaced by new memories full of darkness and pain and solitude. He didn’t even know I they were still alive.

Hadriana was offering Fenris his family. If it were him, Anders didn’t think he could have been strong enough to refuse. Except, the difference was that Fenris didn’t have any memories. Just hopes and dreams. Anders didn’t know if that made is easier, or more difficult. He was selfishly glad it wasn’t his decision to make.

“This is your call, Fenris,” Hawke said, taking a step back. Anders could see the conflicting emotions cross his friend’s face. Hawke always wanted to help, to make it better. And he’d always been especially attached to Fenris. Anders could tell just how…important he was to Hawke. He stamped down the bit of jealousy he felt begin to creep up. _Not now._

Fenris sheathed his sword, moving towards Hadriana. “So I have your word?” She asked hopefully as he leaned down to her level. “I tell you, and you let me go?”

“Yes,” Fenris spat as if the words burned him. “You have my word.”

They were close, their faces almost touching. “Her name is Verania,” Hadriana began, “She is in Korenus serving a magister by the name of Aramon.”

“A servant, not a slave.”

“She’s not a slave.” Hadriana looked at Fenris smugly, seemingly proud of herself for striking such a deal. It made Anders sick.

“I believe you,” Fenris said blankly, Anders barely saw his hand shift into its ethereal state before he thrust it into Hadriana’s chest. The woman choked, pain contorting her features. Anders stared in horror as Fenris crushed her heart without mercy. His eyes were blank as he pulled his fist from her body.

“We are done here,” He brushed past Hawke, keeping his gaze forward.

“Are you alright?” Hawke asked, stopping him, “Do you…want to talk about it?”

Fenris turned on his heels, rounding on Hawke until they were chest-to-chest. “No, I don’t want to talk about it!” He yelled. Anders could tell Hawke wanted to back up, but he firmly kept his stance. “This could be a trap, Danarius could have sent Hadriana here to tell me about this…sister. Even if he didn’t, trying to find her would be suicide.”

Fenris sighed, his shoulders sagging a little. “Danarius has to know about her, and has to know that Hadriana knows. But all that matters is that I finally got to crush this bitch’s heart,” He snarled, turning away from Hawke again. “May she rot, and all the other mages with her.”

Anders wasn’t exactly known for his ability to keep his mouth shut. He actually surprised himself at being able to hold back so far. He kept telling himself that this was Fenris’s fight, that he had no voice in this mission. He probably would have kept quiet, too, if Fenris hadn’t made it personal. He couldn’t say that he liked Hadriana; in fact, he was _glad_ the woman was dead. But blaming all mages for the sins of Tevinter? _Innocent_ mages?

“And here I thought you were unreasonable,” Anders said sarcastically, throwing a venomous glance at Fenris.

“Maybe we should leave,” Hawke cut in, lifting a hand to Fenris’s shoulder.

“No. I don’t want you comforting me,” Fenris shrugged him off, taking a few steps forward before facing Hawke again, “You saw what was done here, there’s always going to be some reason, some _excuse_ why mages need to do this. Even if I found my sister, who knows what the magisters have done to her.”

Anders bit his tongue, forcing himself to be silent. He felt the anger boiling up inside himself.

“What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?” Fenris spat with a finality, “I…need to go.” He reached a hand up to his head, as if suddenly dizzy before leaving.

Anders heard Hawke sigh to himself, a weary and defeated look falling over his face. He wanted to offer comfort, but didn’t know he could without mentioning Fenris. He was too angry to offer any productive consolation to his friend, so he let it be.

*

Anders didn’t quite know how he ended up in Hightown, on the doorstep to Fenris’s dilapidated mansion. After they returned from Kirkwall and went their separate ways, his plan had been to go down to his clinic and see if anyone needed him while he was gone. Thinking about his patients, however, brought him back to the battle with Hadriana. He thought about that gash on Fenris’s stomach, and how he’d never had the chance to heal it.

Sometimes, Anders hated being a healer. It meant that no matter much you want to _not_ see someone, you still have to heal them if they’re hurt. And he _really_ didn’t want to see Fenris. But that wound could very easily kill him if it wasn’t taken care of properly. And knowing Fenris, he wouldn’t have looked for any outside help. Not to mention how it would crush Hawke if anything happened to the elf.

Anders didn’t like the sort-of not-relationship the two of them had, but Hawke cared about Fenris. And Anders wanted Hawke to be happy, even if that meant he himself remained alone.

So, there he stood, at Fenris’s front door, pack of medical supplies at the ready. He knocked at the cold wood. No answer. He knocked again. Sighing, Anders looked over his shoulder, contemplating just leaving Fenris in misery and going back to his clinic. Instead, he opened the door. Thankfully, it had been unlocked, but upon entering, Anders almost wished it had been.

He’d never actually been to the mansion before, preferring to stay as far away from Fenris as possible. But he’d heard his friends talk about it. How Fenris didn’t bother to clear out the dead bodies, how he let the mansion stay in ruins as he waited for Danarius to return. But it had been _three years_. How could he stand to live this way for so long?

“Fenris?” He called out as he ventured deeper into the mansion. His only reply was the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet. _Maker, I hope he’s here._

It took a bit of unfortunate exploring, but eventually he found a closed door with a sliver of golden light seeping out from behind. He knocked softly. “Fenris?” He asked, praying he got a response.

“What do you want, mage?”

Anders rolled his eyes, relieved. “You got hurt, in the fight today,” He explained, “You need help.”

“I need nothing from you,” Fenris snarled from the other side of the door. “Leave.”

Anders sighed, pressing his fingers to his temples in an attempt to stave of the headache he could feel forming. “If I don’t heal you, that wound could kill you,” He didn’t get a response to that. “Fenris?”

“Fine.” Anders grinned smugly to himself before entering.

The first thing he noticed about the room was how much it differed from the rest of the mansion. He could tell that this was really the only room in the building that Fenris spent time in. It was much cleaner, and more decorated than what he’d seen outside.

Fenris was at in an old, worn-looking armchair in front of a lit fireplace, the light from the flames dancing across his features. He didn’t look up at Anders as the other man neared, clearly bitter about the situation. He must know that it was necessary, though, otherwise he would never have let Anders into his private space.

He kneeled down in front of Fenris, the other man avoiding his gaze. Anders let his hand hover in front of Fenris’s tunic in a silent request to lift it; it was a miracle that Fenris let him in at all, he didn’t want to push it. The last thing he wanted to was make Fenris feel like he was forcing him to do anything. But Fenris simply gave him a curt nod, continuing to stare into the fireplace. Anders looked at him for a moment, trying to read his face but there was nothing. Fenris was a master at hiding his emotions. So Anders continued, moving the fabric out of the way.

He almost winced at the sight of the gash; it was deep. Deeper than he had thought. Fenris had just shrugged it off so swiftly during the fight, Anders didn’t think much of it. He had simply assumed it wasn’t too bad. There was a bandage wrapped around Fenris’s torso in a clumsy attempt to stop the bleeding, the cloth completely soaked through.

“Maker…” Anders breathed, looking up at Fenris. He couldn’t imagine the pain Fenris must have been in. But the elf simply sat there, expression blank.

He quickly unwrapped the bandages, revealing the torn skin and muscle. Anders bit his lip, placing his palm over the wound and letting out a wave of healing magic, searching for infection before knitting the flesh back together.

Fenris grimaced when Anders had touched him, but didn’t tell him to stop, so Anders continued cautiously. When he was finished, there was nothing more than a small, pinkish scar. In the short moment before he let Fenris’s tunic fall back into place, he ran his eyes over the various lyrium markings on the other man’s skin—the ones usually hidden from view.

He would never voice it to Fenris, in fear that he would take it the wrong way, but Anders had always been fascinated by the brands. It made him feel a little ill to think about the pain Fenris had gone through when receiving them, but there was no denying that they were beautiful in their own strange way. He didn’t know if it was because he was a mage, or because his body harbored a Fade spirit, but whenever Fenris was near, Anders could _feel_ the lyrium in his body humming. _Singing_ , Justice added.

Before Anders could pull away completely, he hand grasped at his wrist, holding tight. He eyed Fenris warily.

“Thank you,” He said to Anders, sounding more sincere than Anders could ever remember him being. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face at the words.

“Any time, Fenris.”


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris could recall a great number of things that he regretted in his lifetime. Like anyone, he supposed, he wished he could just go back and change them—do the things he was too afraid to do, say the things he was too afraid to say. For one, he regret not escaping sooner. He also regret not killing Danarius sooner. And, he regret taking so very long to accept the fact that he was free. Another thing he regret, it seemed, was visiting Hawke’s estate after Anders had left. And he also regret _leaving_ Hawke’s estate.

He had gone because he had felt the urge to talk about what happened with Hadriana—to apologize, or explain, or _something_. He didn’t remember making the conscious decision to go, just suddenly realized he was there. He wanted to talk to Hawke, though, or maybe just be near him. He had this way about him that made Fenris feel…something. Safe? No, comfortable, maybe. Familiar.

The entire conversation was a bit of a blur, words thrown at each other slurring together in his mind, heated and angry. Irrational. Fenris was, to put simply, a mess. He was angry—he knew that much, at least. Angry at Denarius, angry at Hadriana, angry at Hawke, at himself even, and he was especially angry at Anders. Anders, who came into his house and had the audacity to heal him. Heal him as though he _cared._ From a wound that would have most definitely killed him, given time.

That wound was nothing but a thin, pale scar, now. Something to remind him of the day he killed Hadriana. He didn’t even recall being injured until he was back in his mansion, and by then he was too exhausted to find any outside help. Not as though he would have either way. Hawke often told him that his own stubbornness was what would one day kill him. And he had thought that day had come, and was far too tired to care. So he’d patched himself up as best he could, and sat himself down in front of the fire.

Then, somehow, Anders was there, looking at him with concern in his eyes as if he cared. Healing him as if it mattered. Warm healing magic flowed through his veins, he barely noticed the familiar sting of his brands. He did not have the energy to goad Anders about being a mage, about being an abomination. He allowed Anders to touch him, and use his magic. And he was angry at himself for being _thankful_.

So long, he’d been trying to escape magic, and yet, there it was, fighting alongside him constantly. He would never be free from mages, it would seem.

So, he’d run to Hawke for comfort, or whatever it was he was seeking—he wasn’t quite sure. But, he got scared of something. Himself. The familiar weight of fear and uncertainty settling in his chest. Hawke somehow made him…feel things. Things he didn’t understand, didn’t _want_ to understand. He found it simply too difficult to sort through all those emotions that welled up whenever he was with the other man.

_“You don’t have to go…stay, Fenris. Please.”_

But he didn’t stay. He fled—just like he always did. Several days of loneliness, however, had driven him to the Hanged Man. Thankfully, Hawke was nowhere to be found. Varric was, though, as per usual. Varric always had a knack for reading people, but also the decency to know when not to ask about it. So they played Diamondback in relative silence, as was the usual with them.

It had taken Fenris a while to adjust to having other people around. People that cared about his well-being. _Friends_. It was not something he was accustomed to. And he knew he wasn’t very good at it at first, but thankfully his companions were patient and understanding. They never pressed him when he was obviously at his limits, never forced him to do anything he didn’t want to. And Fenris still had difficulty sometimes, but after three years, he felt almost comfortable in the meagre life he had begun to build. Almost.

 Varric looked up from his cards, seeming to contemplate something before opening his mouth, “Can I ask—“

“No.”

“Alright,” He said, leaning forward in his chair, “But can I give you some advice?”

Fenris huffed, “No, but I know you’ll do it anyway.”

That pulled a sharp laugh from the dwarf, his face scrunching up in amusement. “Yes, well,” He shifted into a more serious expression, “It’s not hard to see there’s somethin’ churning around in your head, and whatever it is, just let me tell you: don’t be afraid to let yourself be happy.”

Fenris opened his mouth to argue, but Varric cut him off: “You’re free, Broody. Enjoy it.”

Varric didn’t attempt any more conversation after that, opting to just focus on the game. But Fenris found his thoughts wandering more than usual, drifting back to the dwarf’s words, to Hawke. Was he really free?

*

Fenris didn’t understand why Hawke even bothered with insisting that Fenris come along on all these…adventures when they involved magic. Blood magic, particularly. He sent another sour look at Merril, who was trotting along beside him, looking as chipper as ever, if a little nervous. Hawke knew how much he despised blood magic. Fenris, however, knew he could have declined every invitation. And yet, he didn’t.

He didn’t despise Merril, though, contrary to what the others may have thought. He thought she was irritating, yes, and very stupid. But she had a naivety about her that made it impossible to truly hate her. But that didn’t mean Fenris had to like her. She seemed to think that they had a sort of kinship just because they were elves, but Fenris felt no such connection. She may not have been his friend, but at some point, he had stopped seeing her as an enemy.

One day, he knew that the consequences to her actions would all come crashing down at once, foolish girl. She claimed to be careful with what she was doing, but Fenris knew there was no such thing when it came to blood magic. Deals with demons always had far too high a price, and someday soon, Merril would be forced to see that. He pitied her.

He wasn’t all that fond of the Dalish, either. Not that he hated them, what he felt was more of an indifference. Just because he was an elf, did not mean they were “his people”. And the Dalish, it would seem, didn’t like him all that much in turn. Which he couldn’t have cared less about. “City elf” they called him.

What Fenris didn’t understand, was how Hawke could encourage Merril the way he did. She was going to get them all killed because of that blighted mirror. An Eluvian, she had called it. She believed the thing would, what? Save the Dalish? Bring back history? That mirror was evil, Fenris could feel it. No good would come of this. But, he would continue to follow Hawke. As much as the man supported mage rights—to Fenris’s dismay—he wasn’t _stupid_. Hawke was obviously aware of the dangers of blood magic, and so far had proven resistant to its temptations. Yet he helped Merril with matters such as this. Fenris just didn’t understand.

Merril had claimed to need a special tool from the Dalish to repair her Eluvian. She invoked _vir sulevanen_ , which would allow the Keeper to grant her access to the tool, provided she do something for the clan in turn. Fenris had hoped that maybe the threat of being slaughtered by this beast they were sent to kill would sway Merril, that she would realize it was simply too dangerous and forgo her misguided quest. However, Merril’s resolve was solid, and she refused to give up, even if it meant putting her friends in danger.

They heard the spiders before they saw them, the sound of their legs skittering across the stone echoed against the walls. As foul as they were, Fenris could say with confidence that he much preferred killing the spiders than he did Darkspawn or corpses. That did not mean _enjoyed_ it, though.

He narrowly dodged a bolt of poisonous saliva as it shot past him. Gripping his sword tightly, he brought it down hard on the creature, nearly splitting it in half. Blood and guts splattered on his face and armor, coating him with the same stink the spiders carried with them. He scrunched up his face in disgust before moving on to the next one, slicing several of its legs before it could pounce on Isabela. She nodded to him in thanks, looking around to see if there were any more left.

Hawke poked at a dead one with the tip of his sword. “Eugh, I suppose when you wander around in caves, giant spiders are to be expected,” He said, examining the others for any possible loot. “You’d think I would have learned that by now.”

Fenris’s gaze caught an elven corpse sprawled across the cave floor, innards spilling out of several deep gashes in its abdomen. A victim of the Varterral, no doubt. Most likely one of the hunters Marethari told them about. It seemed as though the spiders had begun to feed on it. Nearing he body, he looked to Merril, who’s eyes were welling up with sorrow at the sight.

“Radha,” She whispered sadly, kneeling down beside the body, “Falon’Din guide you, lethallan.” She reached around the neck to unclasp a blood-soaked amulet, cradling it gently in her hand.

“What were the hunters doing in here?” Hawke questioned, looking over the body himself. He had a large smear of blood on his left cheek, seemingly oblivious to it himself.

Merril stood up, carefully pocketing the amulet before turning to Hawke. “The Keeper would have sent them to recover elven artifacts from the Varterral before the camp had to move again,” She looked down at the body again sadly.

Hawke’s eyebrows drew together, creating a crease in his forehead, “So your Keeper sent them to their deaths?” Fenris moved to stand beside Hawke, sheathing his blade. It didn’t seem like the Keeper to put members of her clan in danger. Even knowing what Merril was, Marethari still seemed to try and protect her.

“No,” She quickly corrected, “Normally they let the Dalish come and go as we please. Something must have provoked it.”

Fenris had a bad feeling about this, and by the way Hawke was pressing his lips together tightly in concern, so did he. Something was not right. Hawke simply nodded and continued forward, though, not asking Merril any more questions.

The feeling of wrongness didn’t leave Fenris though, as they continued their venture through the caves. They came across several more spiders, cutting them down just as easily as the others. They also found two more bodies, which Merril was equally distressed about. She collected their amulets, too, informing Hawke that they should give them to the Keeper. She quickly wiped away the few tears that had fallen at the sight of her dead friends.

Blood mage or not, Fenris did feel sorry for her loss. She was lucky to have _had_ people she could mourn. In Tevinter, Fenris would have given anything to simply have a friend. He had only himself until he found Hawke, relying on nobody else. Merril had everything—friends, family, a home—and she threw it all away for a demon. For that, Fenris could never bring himself to like her.

They all looked up at the sound of frantic footsteps nearing them. Fenris put a hand on the hilt of his blade, ready to draw it at the first sign of danger. His caution was put to rest, however, when an elven man came into view, clearly out of breath, his face red from exertion. He immediately hid beside a boulder, shaken.

“Is someone there?” Hawke called out, taking a few steps in the direction the man had gone. “It’s safe, you can come out.”

The elf rounded the corner cautiously, croaking out a meagre “Hello?” At the sight of their party he sighed in relief, quickly walking towards them. “Praise Andras—I mean, The Creators, I thought I’d never get out of—“ His speech came to a halt when he noticed Merril, his face visibly paling. “Merril?”

“Aneth aral, Pol. Are you hurt?” She asked.

The elf, Pol, took a step back, his expression suddenly angry. “Stay back!” He shouted, “What do you want from me?”

Fenris saw Merril’s glassy eyes widen, “Pol, what’s wrong? I’m here to help!”

Pol backed away from her, “Stay back! Don’t touch me!”

Hawke shifted beside Fenris, his face neutral, but his eyes swimming with concern. “Merril couldn’t hurt you if she tried,” He scoffed, “At worst, she might make frowny faces.”

“She’ll do more than hurt me! Don’t you know what she is?” _There it is_ , Fenris thought. This was about her disgusting blood magic. While Merril might appear harmless at first sight, there must have been reason for Pol’s fear. He kept silent, though, instead watching the scene play out before him.

“Creators, help me!” Pol yelled, turning in the other direction and fleeing from them. “Someone, please!”

“Pol, no!” Merril shouted, taking off after him towards, what Fenris assumed, was the Varterral.

The Varterral was almost like a very large insect, with long spindling legs and what looked like a stone exoskeleton encasing its body. It nearly resembled a praying mantis, Fenris thought, except, it was the size of a dragon. It shrieked at the sight of them, a loud, booming sound that reverberated through Fenris’s body. Pol was on the ground behind it, cowering in fear. Merril shouted words of encouragement at him before the Varterral charged.

Fenris had fought a lot of strange creatures in the time that he had known Hawke. From dragonlings to golems. Never, though, had he fought something so very large. Immediately, Hawke charged towards the thing, shouting as he raised his sword, shield held up in defense. Normally when he used the shield to ram into enemies head on, they toppled instantly. The Varterral didn’t so much as flinch. That didn’t put off Hawke, though.

Fenris stepped into the fade, feeling the lyrium thrumming throughout his body as Merril coated herself in rock armor. She gathered a group of large stones from the ground with her magic and send them hurtling towards the beast.

In response, it spit some sort of sticky substance at them, drenching them with the fluid. “What _is_ this?” Isabela asked, attempting to wipe it off of he clothing, “This is going to take forever to get out.”

Fenris scoffed at her, slashing at a leg. It barely acknowledged him, instead focusing on Hawke, who was just barely blocking its attacks with his shield, the metal denting under the force. He slashed at it again, hoping to shift the attention to himself.

He knew the fight wasn’t going to be easy at first glance of the thing, but it was when it caused the cavern to shake—sending boulders falling from the walls and ceiling hurtling down on them that he doubted they would even be able to defeat it at all. It swiped its leg out at Fenris, catching him in the arm with the sharp tip of its leg. He shouted, bringing his sword down _hard_ on the leg, hoping to hack it off once and for all.

The creature shrieked, backing away from Fenris as it raised the wounded appendage, flesh and rock and _whatever_ else it was made of hung loosely from where he’d cut it. He registered Isabela appearing behind him before he charged at the Varterral, a new wave of boulders raining down on them.

He raised his sword high, slicing deeply into its belly and sending all sort of innards spilling out. It let out what could only be described as a scream before flailing around. Fenris narrowly dodged it as it fell with a loud _thump_.

The brands flickered out as he stood slowly, waiting to see if it would get back up. A silence had fallen over the cavern, though, blood pooling around the Varterral. It was dead. Fenris let out a sigh of relief and brushed his hair out of his eyes, blood congealing and clinging to the strands.

“Hawke!” He heard Merril shriek somewhere behind him. Hearing the panic in her voice he whirled around, scanning the cavern for her. What he saw, however, caused his heart to drop down into his gut.

She was kneeling over Hawke, who was sprawled out on the ground unconscious, a large boulder lay across his abdomen. For a moment, he felt paralyzed, frozen in place. Dread sinking into his bones. _Hawke_ , he thought. _Hawke_.

He snapped out of it, though, rushing to Merril’s side. She was attempting to roll the boulder off of him, pushing with all her might, but it was too heavy. He could see tears glittering in her eyes as she pushed, putting her full body weight into it. Even with Fenris’s superior strength, along with the abilities given to him from the lyrium, he struggled with the boulder as well. It was only when Isabela joined in, combing their strength, were they finally able to move it.

He looked down at Hawke, ripping his gauntlets off and pressing his fingers to the side of Hawke’s neck. He held his breath in anticipation, praying to whatever Maker or Creators would hear him. _Please don’t let him be dead. Please don’t let him be dead._ Hawke was going to open his eyes at any moment now, make a quip about how even boulders were falling for him. He was going to laugh and brush himself off and _smile_ at Fenris in that special way he did.

But Hawke didn’t open his eyes. Fenris almost cried in relief when he felt the faint thump of his pulse, but it didn’t feel right. It seemed erratic, uneven. Hawke wheezed in a breath, clearly struggling to even breathe. Fenris bit down on his bottom lip, looking over his friend, wanting to fix it. He had to fix it. He couldn’t let Hawke die. Hawke _couldn’t_ …

For maybe the first time in his life, Fenris found himself wishing Anders was there. Anders would know what to do. Anders would be able to save him, like he always did. But Darktown was a long, long way away from Sundermount. Anders wasn’t there to make it better this time. Fenris’s hands hovered over Hawke’s body, afraid to touch, afraid to break him even _more_.

Suddenly Merril was there, shoving a potion into Fenris’s hands. She must have been saying something but he couldn’t hear her over the roaring in his ears. He stared dumbly at the bottle in his shaking hands, the liquid sloshing around inside. It clicked, then, and he was scrambling to get it to Hawke’s lips. A potion. It wouldn’t fix everything, but it would give them more time. Time to get back to the Dalish camp, to find a healer.

 

*

 

Fenris had been terrified to heft Hawke up onto his shoulders. What if he only made the injury worse? What if his ribs were broken and he was only pushing them into Hawke’s lungs? But they didn’t have time to doubt or debate about what to do—Hawke was fading. While the potion bought them more time, it wouldn’t be too long before Hawke’s body gave out from the extent of his injuries. They didn’t need to be healers to see that.

He vaguely recalled yelling at Merril back in the cavern. She was a mage, wasn’t she? She should be able to heal him, shouldn’t she? But she had simply sobbed under the stress and Fenris’s harsh words. Magic didn’t _work_ that way. She didn’t know any healing spells, she tried to explain to Fenris. He kept shouting, though, and Isabela had to intervene, reminding them that they needed to get Hawke help _now_.

Luckily, the Dalish camp _did_ have a healer. Although, she didn’t seem nearly as competent as Anders did, Fenris thought bitterly. Hawke looked pale, and his eyes were dark and sunken in, and the closer they had gotten to the camp, the more trouble he seemed to have breathing. The healer assured them that he would be okay, however, after she had looked him over and began casting her spells.

Fenris wanted to believe her, but found himself struggling. What if Hawke didn’t make it? What would Fenris do then? He tried to imagine his life without Hawke, without his jokes and his short temper and that _smile_. He tried to imagine what he would do without Hawke there to drag him along on insane adventures, thrusting themselves headfirst into danger every other day. Without Hawke lounging around Fenris’s mansion just to keep him company, despite the state of the place.

He tried to imagine it. He couldn’t. Hawke was a constant, a persistent force that Fenris barely tolerated at first, but had grown so close to over time. He hadn’t quite realized just how much Hawke filled up the empty parts of himself.

And then, Hawke finally opened his eyes. Fenris barely managed to swallow down a sob when Hawke’s gaze locked on to him. He tried to sit up and winced, his right arm wrapping around his chest. “Shit,” He breathed. “That hurt.”

Fenris could have laughed aloud, hysteria building up inside of him. Hawke was alive. _Alive_. He would be okay. He forced himself to take several calming breaths, his heart still racing.

“He’ll be alright?” Merril asked meekly, still looking shaken up herself.

“Yes,” The healer reassured her, “He will still be in pain for several days, but he will be alright.” She turned away from Merril then, in a cold way. The other events of the caverns came back to Fenris. How Pol acted around her, as though she were made of poison. So terrified of her, in fact, that he ran right into the arms of the Varterral. He hadn’t payed attention to much else once the beast was slain, but he assumed that Pol hadn’t made it, if his absence said anything.

Merril nodded a little sadly before rushing over to the Keeper, to claim her tool probably. Fenris sneered in her direction before turning to Hawke.

“We should get back,” He said, hoping his expression was set in its usual blank. “You’re still hurt and you need to rest.”

Hawke winced again as he attempted to stand up, grabbing on to Fenris’s offered hand for support. “What about Merril?” He croaked out.

Fenris scowled. “She will be fine,” He said, “She is perfectly capable of defending herself.” Hawke looked skeptical at that statement, as if he thought a _blood mage_ wouldn’t be able to survive the small trip home. He opened his mouth, most likely to protest, but Isabela cut him off.

“I’ll stay with her, make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.” She winked at them, “Don’t worry, Hawke, you really should get back.”

Hawke just sighed, resigned. He nodded and let Fenris lead him away from the camp. He looked over his shoulder a few times, clearly concerned about Merril, before she was longer within sight. How Hawke could be so concerned over someone who had nearly gotten him killed was beyond Fenris.

But he didn’t wish to dwell on that too much. Not at the moment, at least. There would be plenty of time for what Varric calls, “brooding”, later. Now, as they neared Kirkwall, he wanted to get Hawke to Anders. He didn’t trust the Dalish healer and her supposed skills. As much as he loathed the mage, Fenris knew he wouldn’t overlook any part of an injury—on Hawke or on anyone else.

 

*

 

Fenris never liked Darktown. It was dirty, and pungent, and loud, and, well, dark. It was the spitting image of poverty, and the entire place just made him sick. But it was the place where people seemed to need a healer the most, so this was where Anders stayed. How he could bear the filth, though, Fenris didn’t know. He scoffed a little at himself. He was one to talk, Fenris thought. At least Anders didn’t leave decomposing corpses lying around.

Fortunately, as he opened the door to the clinic, Fenris noted that it wasn’t too crowded at the moment. Good. He didn’t want too much attention drawn to Hawke. Anders turned to greet them, the tired smile on his face dying as he took in Hawke’s state.

“What happened?” He asked, dismayed as he rushed to Hawke’s side.

Hawke grinned at him, “Oh, you know me, always brushing death. A boulder, this time. I’m fine though,” He babbled, letting Anders sit him down on the table.

“’Fine’ my ass, Hawke,” Anders made quick work of Hawke’s armor and undershirt, “A _boulder_ fell on you?”

Fenris leaned against a wooden post, crossing his arms over his chest. “A healer from the Dalish clan healed him, but—“

“But you wanted to make sure he was alright,” Anders finished for him, raising his eyes to look at the elf. There was something in his gaze that Fenris couldn’t quite place, but it was gone in an instant, the healer turning back to Hawke.

He placed a palm on Hawke’s bare chest, asking him to breathe deeply for him. Fenris felt something inside of him constrict at their close proximity. It was an ugly feeling, growing in his gut, and Fenris didn’t like it.

Anders smiled down at Hawke, his amber eyes bright. Hawke smiled back. Fenris watched.

It didn’t take long for Anders to give Hawke the ‘all clear’. He said she’d done a sloppy job at mending Hawke, but good enough. “I don’t recommend going gallivanting off again for the next few days, though, Hawke,” Anders said, handing Hawke his tunic. Hawke just sent him a cheeky grin before getting to his feet.

“Well,” He sighed, “This has been a _fun_ day, but I think I’ll be heading home now.”

Fenris watched as he turned to leave, all of his feelings of the day coming back to him all at once. He felt exhausted. Rubbing a hand against his forehead, he moved to leave as well, but a hand gripping his wrist stopped him.

“You’re hurt,” Anders was staring at him when he turned, eyebrows drawn together.

“What?”

Anders gestured to the gash the Varterral had inflicted, “Your arm. It’s bleeding.” He raised his other hand, letting it hover over the wound, “Can I…”

“Fine,” Fenris grunted, turning his head away from the mage. A warmth suddenly spread through his body, pooling around the cut. His markings stirred in response but they felt…strange. They weren’t hurting, Fenris realized, his eyes snapping back to Anders. Why weren’t they hurting?

For as long as Fenris could remember, his markings had been a constant source of pain for him. Over time, he had gotten used to it, but they still hurt. Until now.

As soon as Anders finished knitting his wound back together, Fenris tore his arm out of the mage’s grasp. His brands throbbed in agony again. He stared at the healer in scrutiny, the other man’s eyes questioning, but not hostile. Since when was Anders passive? He rubbed his freshly healed arm.

Turning away, he exited the clinic, not glancing back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I finally have a plot figured out, it should start getting interesting. My original plan was for this to be a mini fic but after the first chapter I just decided to...keep going. *shrugs* Anyways,  
> I don't plan for there to be too many chapters from Hawke's point of view. While this fic will kinda center around the three of them being romantically involved, it's main focus will be Anders and Fenris, and how specifically their relationship changes and grows.   
> I'm not planning on this being much more than about 20,000 words but at the pace its going now it might end up being longer than I anticipated. We'll see, though.

“Hawke!” Merril chirped cheerfully, looking up from the large book that was splayed open on her table.

Hawke smiled at her from across the room, closing her front door behind him. He hadn’t had the chance to check on Merril the day before. His ribs had ached too much, and he felt more tired than he had in months. Who knew having a big rock almost crush you to death could hurt so much? Anyway, he had been concerned about his friend, not having gotten the chance to discuss what had happened. She had seemed pretty…distressed when Hawke and Fenris departed from Sundermount. Not that Fenris noticed. But Hawke knew that he blamed Merril for Hawke’s injury.

“I’m glad to see you’re alright,” she continued, softer this time. “Fenris was really worried about you, you know.”

Hawke snorted. He had to have been if he _willingly_ brought him down to Anders. Normally, just simply mentioning the man would put a scowl on Fenris’s face. Hawke wasn’t sure what to make of Fenris anymore.

After the incident with Hadriana, he’d come home to find Fenris in his estate, waiting for him. He’d been visibly upset, and apparently Hawke had just said all the wrong things. He’d wanted Fenris to stay, but had ended up driving him away instead. Hawke had never really been sure how to define the relationship he had with Fenris, but he’d been sure that there were feelings there—thought that he could sense something between them. Then again, maybe he was wrong. Or maybe Fenris didn’t want to acknowledge those feelings. Hawke wasn’t sure he’d ever know the answer.

“Yes, well,” He nodded in the direction of her bedroom, “You got the tool you needed?”

Merril’s face fell at the mention of the tool. She shook her head a little sadly. “I did, but…”

“But?”

She sighed, “Am I crazy, Hawke?”

The question caught Hawke off guard. If there was one thing about Merril, in all the time he had known her, it was that she was sure of herself. Her will was made of steel, and she was confident in the decisions she had made, even though they had led her down a dark path. He’d never seen her second-guess herself before.

“What?” He sputtered, “No! Of course not,” A little naïve, maybe, but Merril was not crazy—contrary to what Anders and Fenris thought.

Merril looked up at him sadly, “I thought the Arulin’Holm would fix everything—the mirror would work and everything would be right again.” By the tone of her voice, Hawke assumed it had not as such. “But I keep dreaming of Pol’s face. Everyone that I care for thinks I’m a monster.”

 _Oh, Merril_ , Hawke thought sadly. “I don’t think you’re a monster.” She blinked in surprise. “What happened to Pol…that wasn’t your fault, Merril. _He_ ran. It isn’t your fault that he was afraid of you,” He said truthfully.

Her lips spread slowly into a wide smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She brushed a strand of hair out of her face, looking away from Hawke. As strong as she seemed to be, he supposed even Merril could crack under too much abuse. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for her, to have her clan turn their backs on her, for them to think she was something evil. Hawke didn’t condone blood magic, he thought it was reckless, and dangerous. Making any deals with any demons, no matter how careful you were, could never end well.

Even so, he couldn’t help but admire Merril in a way. She was so sure that what she was doing was right—that it was a _good_ thing. And she still managed to hold on to that belief even when the entire world was against her. She was going to get hurt, Hawke knew that. One day, all of this was going to hurt her. And he’d tried to warn her, but she didn’t listen. But he would stand by her until then. She was his friend, and he would do all he could to protect her.

 

*

 

After three years of walking the passageways of Darktown, Hawke was used to most of its…quirks. At first, he thought Anders strange for wanting to hole up in the literal asshole of the city, but after seeing how many people needed his help, Hawke understood a little better. Not that he would ever want to live down here, Hawke wasn’t _that_ selfless. He had his standards.

He wasn’t sure if Anders appreciated it when Hawke decided to hang around the clinic—usually getting in his way—but he never objected. Hawke knew he was glad for the company, at least. The reason Hawke was down there that day, however, was so that he could escape his mother.

Hawke loved his mother, no doubt, but she didn’t always understand him. They’d had their rough patches, specifically after Bethany had died. She had resented him for a time. Maybe not obviously, but she did. Hawke could feel it, and he knew Carver did, too. But Carver had been angry at Hawke for his own reason, as well. Leandra had felt as though it was Hawke’s fault that Bethany was killed—she said he should have stopped her from running off the way she did. He was her older brother, he should have _protected_ her.

It was only after Carver left that she seemed to forgive him. Whether it was because she finally realized there was nothing Hawke could have done, or if it was because she simply couldn’t bear to lose the only child she had left, Hawke didn’t know. And it didn’t really matter. They slowly began to repair their relationship, and rebuild their lives. Hightown seemed worlds away from what it had been like in Lowtown.

Unfortunately, since moving into the estate, his mother had begun reacquainting herself with the nobles of Kirkwall. Which meant, to Hawke’s dismay, that she was constantly attempting to find him a wife. There didn’t seem to be any way prevent her from searching for ‘suitable women’, no matter how many times Hawke told her he just simply wasn’t interested. He had no intention of marrying some rich noble girl, no matter how much his mother insisted that he was “just going to _love_ her”. Hawke already had his eyes set on someone, and that someone was broody, rash, and had pointy ears.

Looking over at Anders, however, Hawke wondered if he should just give up. There were times when Fenris had seemed to return the interest, but others he was just as hard and cold to Hawke as he was anyone else. _Was it worth it?_ Hawke thought. Continuing to court someone as closed off as Fenris? It was unlikely Fenris would even _want_ to be in a relationship, regardless of feelings. But there was something about him, something that Hawke felt connected to. He wasn’t sure he _could_ just give up so easily.

“Are you going to stare at me all day, or try to make yourself useful?” Hawke blinked, noticing Anders was looking at him, amusement glittered in his eyes.

“What?” Hawke asked, sitting up straighter in his seat.

Anders huffed at him, resuming…whatever it was he was doing with a potion. “I need more elfroot,” He said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few silver coins, “Would you mind?”

Hawke stood, nearing Anders and pushing his hand away. He always made sure his friends made an equal profit whenever they helped him out with some adventure or another, but he knew Anders never held on to his cut. He never brought it up, but Hawke knew almost every coin Anders made went into helping the people of Darktown, leaving him with only _just_ enough to keep himself alive. So, he wasn’t going to let Anders give him what little he had when Hawke was perfectly capable of paying for it himself.

“I’m a big boy, Anders,” He mused, “I think I can handle paying for a few plants.” Unfortunately, he knew that wouldn’t prevent Anders from using that money for some other selfless purpose. Anders opened his mouth to protest, but Hawke cut him off. “It’s fine, Anders. Go do your…thing,” He waved his hand in the direction of a patient, turning on his heel and making for the door.

Honestly, he thought, Anders needed to take care of himself sometimes. He always seemed so tired, drained. He wasn’t sure if it was Anders’s own selflessness that made him work so hard, or if it was Justice’s influence.

 

“Hawke?” Anders asked that night. He’d put out the lantern outside his door that indicated the clinic was open, and he and Hawke were sat in the back, at an old, splintered table. Hawke looked up at Anders’s voice, seeing his friend’s face scrunched up in thought. “Why have you kept me around for so long?” His was voice quiet—as though he almost didn’t want Hawke to hear him.  

“What? Why wouldn’t I?”

Anders hesitated, biting his bottom lip. He looked away from Hawke, instead focusing on the wall to his left. “I’m not…exactly safe to be around. So, why let me stay for so long? Putting you, and your friends at risk?”

A sadness began to well up in Hawke’s chest. Was this how Anders felt? As though he was a danger to everyone around him. Anders had an intense power that, if thrust into the right circumstances, _could_ , indeed, be very dangerous. But, Hawke also knew, in his heart, that neither Anders nor Justice would ever do anything to hurt those they cared about. Justice was no demon, as Anders loudly liked to remind everyone, and spirits didn’t hurt people the way demons did. Demons massacred, Justice defended: protected.

“Because I care about you,” Anders’s eyes shifted back to Hawke. “You’re no more dangerous than Merril or Fenris—“

“That’s not exactly helpful, Hawke.”

Hawke snorted, then caught Anders’s gaze in a sober intensity, “Just because you’re different—because you have different abilities from anyone else, doesn’t mean you’re some kind of monster that people need to fear. You are…amazing.”

Anders visibly swallowed, pressing his lips together tightly. He didn’t turn away, though, keeping his focus on Hawke. “What if, one day, I hurt you? What then?”

“Then I’ll forgive you,” Hawke said plainly, “And we’ll figure it out.” He held no doubt in his words. If Anders ever lost control, he wouldn’t abandon him—he couldn’t. He meant more to Hawke than he realized. If Hawke ever lost him…he didn’t know what he would do. Even if the rest of their friends refused to stand by his side, Hawke would remain. Of that, he was positive.

Anders had his hands on the table, wringing them nervously. Hawke reached out to stop the movement, “I won’t leave you, Anders. I promise.” He didn’t look like he quite believed Hawke, his gaze skeptical, but he nodded anyway. It was then that Hawke noticed just how dark the circles under his eyes were, how gaunt his face was. He was gripping Hawke’s hand tightly, as though if he let go, Hawke would slip away.

The conversation had left Hawke feeling unsettled, worried. After three years, why would Anders ask such a question now? He didn’t think asking would get him much of an answer—Anders was often careful about keeping his true emotions and doubts hidden, using humor to deflect uncomfortable inquiries.

As he headed back to the estate, he racked his brain for any insight as to why Anders would suddenly be feeling this way, but could come up with nothing. The nighttime Hightown air was cool and clean on his skin, making him feel grimy from his time spent in Darktown. He always came out of that plays feeling dirty, he didn’t know how Anders could stand it.

About five minutes away from his estate, Hawke felt a shift in the air. He turned around to investigate when he suddenly felt a sharp pain in the side of his head. Stumbling, he reached up to touch it, his hand coming away with blood on his fingertips. He wasn’t given time to recover before another swing was directed at him—this time, the _sharp_ end of the blade. He narrowly dodged the attack, swiftly unsheathing his own sword.

Finally, he was able to catch a glimpse of his attacker, not that there _was_ much to really glimpse at. It seemed to be a man, judging by the build, but Hawke had been wrong about these types of things before. Whatever this person was, they were dressed in black from head to toe, almost invisible in the shadows. Their long coat whirled around their legs when they spun, trying to catch Hawke off guard. He blocked the assault with his shield.

Looking at their clothing, Hawke would have guessed they were a mage. By their swift moves, he would have assumed assassin. But, the very large greatsword said otherwise. So, Hawke wasn’t really sure what to make of this person. Their face was covered by some sort of cloth and leather mask, not even slits were cut into the fabric for the eyes to see.

Hawke raised his sword to parry another swing when the figure suddenly halted. He lowered his eyes, seeing a large, bloodied blade now sticking out of their chest. Confused, Hawke took a step back, slightly lowering his weapon. The blade was pulled out of his attacker, the person now falling to the ground—presumably dead. He looked up to see, of all people, Fenris standing over the body, the moonlight reflecting off of his white hair and making him look almost ethereal.

Hawke barked out a nervous laugh, “We just have to stop meeting like this.”

“How do you always manage to find yourself in trouble?”

“It’s a talent.” Fenris rolled his eyes, sheathing his sword and glancing down at the corpse.

Hawke poked at the body with the tip of his boot, grimacing. “Who do you think he was?” He asked.

Fenris shrugged, “Couldn’t have been part of a gang—they always seem travel in groups.”

“An assassin, then?”

“That seems the most likely. Who would want to assassinate you, however, I wouldn’t know.” Hawke’s pissed off a lot of people during his time in Kirkwall. But he’s helped more. He can’t ever recall angering someone so much that they would go so far as to send an assassin after him, though. He kneeled down to search the pockets, maybe find a clue as to who he was or who sent him. Unfortunately, all he was able to discover were a few odd flasks of poison and an intricately designed dagger. The silver hilt was twisted around itself, golden lines swirling around the metal blade. Hawke pocketed it—if he was unable to sell it for a decent price, he saw no harm in simply keeping it for himself.

He found no indication, though, of the assassin’s origin or identity, which was disappointing. He didn’t see how it was really any of his concern anymore anyways. The assassin had failed—if their employer decided they _really_ wanted Hawke dead, they would send another, and Hawke would now be prepared. If they didn’t care all that much, well, Hawke was alive and well and managed to rid Kirkwall of a hitman.

“Well,” Hawke said, clapping his hands together as he stood, “Now that _that’s_ over with, would you like to come in?” He gestured in the direction his estate was in.

Fenris shook his head, eyes looking lightly sad, “No, I should…return to the mansion. It is late.” Not the most well-executed excuse, but Hawke nodded anyway. Fenris had been avoiding him ever since the incident with Hadriana. Hawke understood why, but that didn’t make it any less hurtful. He wouldn’t press Fenris, though, if he wanted to be alone.

“Goodnight, then,” Hawke chirped, trying not to let his emotions bleed into his tone. If they did, Fenris didn’t show any signs of noticing. He nodded respectfully at Hawke, granting the corpse one last glance before walking off.

Hawke sighed once he could no longer see the elf, turning back to the assassin. “Where did you come from?” He whispered into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one felt a little rushed, sorry

**Author's Note:**

> I don't exactly have a beta so if you spot any mistakes just let me know and I'll try to fix it.


End file.
